


Kinslayer

by Dayja



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gen, He loves her like a sister, Hurt/Comfort, Legolas does not pine after Tauriel, Non-Graphic Violence, Off-Screen Murder, Suicide, dead Legolas, death by fading, discussion of suicide, it's upsetting being dead, more like implied violence, semi-graphic wounds, soul wounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-16 15:03:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12345048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dayja/pseuds/Dayja
Summary: One moment Legolas was celebrating the fall of Sauron and his own return to the Greenwood, amidst his family and greatest friends.  The next moment he stands in a strange realm that looks exactly like his father's halls, except that there are no other people with him.  What has happened?  Where did Tauriel come from, with wounds to her chest and wrists?  And what is so horribly ugly about the mark on her neck?Note: Not a Legolas/Tauriel romance.  I'd go as far as to say it may not be entirely kind to Tauriel's character, but I don't think I villainized her either.  A single action she committed in the movies has rather drastic and, some may believe, unfair consequences.  Of course, some may believe I wasn't harsh enough.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own/am not associated with/make no money from The Lord of the Rings or The Hobbit.
> 
> Warnings: Major character death. From the perspective of the dead, rather than the living. Yes, that's probably a bit of a spoiler, but I'll bet you've guessed it anyway, if the tags hadn't already given it away. 
> 
> Semi-graphic descriptions of bloody wounds (but no graphic descriptions of how the wounds were obtained). Suicide, betrayal, murder. So, quite a dark story in some ways, and yet, probably not quite as dark as the warnings make it sound. Just think of it as a sort of ghost story. Or a murder mystery where it's the victim trying to solve the crime.

“Legolas.”

The youth to whom that name belonged turned around, but there was no one there.  Legolas continued to turn in a slow circle, staggering slightly under an overwhelming sense of disorientation.  It was a rare feeling in an elf and he didn’t like it.

He didn’t know where he was.  No, he did know.  These were his father’s halls.  This was his home.  He didn’t know why he was there, though, in that particular hall.  Hadn’t he been somewhere else entirely only a moment before?  There had been a party, with music and dancing and laughter, and then someone had called his name and he had turned to look and now he was somewhere else and he couldn’t remember how he got there or why.  Nor could he see who called him.  He couldn’t even remember whose voice it had been, only that he felt he knew it.

It was very disconcerting, not least because he recognized the place where he stood, and he had no reason to be there.  It was a quiet place, with trees among stone pillars and hundreds of white flowers, tucked away in every corner and filling vases and scattered upon the ground.  It was a remembering place.  It was a place for the dead.

Now was not the time to remember the fallen, it was the time to celebrate the living.  Sauron had fallen, the ring of power was destroyed, Aragorn was crowned king, and Prince Legolas had returned home.  There was a great feast, in honor of their victory, in honor of his return, in honor of the guests he had brought with him, for all these reasons and more.  All the fellowship had been invited, and all but Mithrandir had accepted.  And even the wizard had shown up in the end, after following his own path, just in time for the party.  Legolas’s father had welcomed them all, surprising even Legolas in his treatment of Gimli.

“You are why my son has returned to me?” Thranduil had asked.

“I am,” Gimli had answered, gleaning the king’s meaning at once, “And he is the reason am here to stand before you.  Many times over have we proved ourselves brothers.  Many times over have our lives been in each other’s hands.”

“Then I welcome you Gimli, son of Gloin, for you have returned to me a treasure of more worth than any to be found in my entire kingdom.”

His father then said as much to King Aragorn as well, and to the hobbits, though they tried to tell him it was all the other way around, and it was only Legolas who ever protected them.  Thranduil, being ancient and wise, saw through that well enough to the truth.  Legolas was glad, if a bit embarrassed at being referred to as his father’s greatest treasure.  Then Thranduil had wanted to have a word alone with Gandalf.  Something about him and Elrond deciding that a young warrior elfling was the best choice out of all the elves in Rivendell for a suicidal mission across Middle Earth?  Particularly when that elfling, only barely past his majority, had only gone there in the first place to deliver a message.

“Oh…ah…you really need to speak to Lord Elrond about his choices in the fellowship.  Oh look, is it time for the fireworks?  I’ll just go set them up…” 

Gandalf had made a rather quick exit and that had seemed the signal to start the feast.  To Legolas, it did not start a moment too soon.  Being talked about as a treasure had been embarrassing, but at least that had meant his father was going to accept Legolas’s new friends, odd assortment though they seemed.   Being whispered about while half of the fellowship tried to work out why Thranduil seemed to be referring to their great and formidable warrior friend as an elfling, that was almost too much.  He did not want to imagine the teasing they would start if the truth were explained to them.  Perhaps he could pass it off as the way fathers always see their children as, well, children?

And so the feast had begun, with Legolas at his father’s side and his friends from the fellowship as guests of honor.  They had drunk wine, and feasted, and there was music, and stories.  Legolas had friends among the elves as well, of course, and they wanted stories of his travels. 

What could have addled his senses so completely to leave him standing alone in the Hall of Mourning when only moment before, it seemed, he had been rejoicing among good friends?  There had been wine, of course, more than enough to addle even an elf’s wits, but Legolas had not been drinking so heavily as that.  What else then?  Enchantment?  Some drug added to his drink?  But what could touch him here, in his own father’s court?  And who would seek to harm him, now, after the war was finished and done, and their own people were the victors?  No, there could be no malice in what had happened to him.  He must have drunken more than he intended, and now the party was long over and wine had stolen some of his memories, and he only just awakened from sleep.  In the Hall of Mourning.  In clothes that, now that he looked down upon himself, were not his own.

He was dressed all in white, a dazzling white that almost made his own skin seem dark in comparison.  The cloth was light and airy; trousers, a long and sleeveless shirt, and a robe over that that ran to his ankles.  On his feet were white shoes of the same material with thin leather soles that perfectly molded to his foot.  The design and lightness of his suit reminded him more of night clothes than anything he’d choose to walk around in, except they looked too fine for merely sleeping in.  The white cloth was embroidered with white and silver threads, beautiful designs to represent his house, his kingdom, and even his friends, for that bit on the sleeves of his robe was dwarvish symbols unless he was very much mistaken, and not something an elf would likely include.  The design was so light it was almost unnoticeable, like a shimmer and an idea rather than an accent to his clothes, yet the closer he studied it, the more detailed and intricate it proved to be.

He was also wearing a circlet upon his head, one that proved to be of white gold when he took it off to look on it.  It was like no circlet that he owned, and crafted to resemble a wreath with white flowers and green leaves.  The leaves seemed to be made up of emeralds.  Like the rest of his new clothes, the design was light and delicate and understated but intricate.  Having nothing better to do with it, he put it back on his head.  His hair, he noticed, was tied back in the same warrior braids he always wore to battle.

Not knowing what else to do, Legolas gave up on puzzling out how he got there or why he was dressed as he was and decided to try and retrace his steps.  The silence of the Hall of Mourning followed him, his own footfall as silent as an elf can make it.  No other footsteps did he hear, nor voices, nor any noise that was not the sigh of trees.  He passed no one.  Not when he left the Hall, not when he went up some stairs and then down, not when he stepped up to the very doors of the banquet hall, where surely someone should have been standing at attendance.  He pushed the doors open himself.

The feast was still laid.  The instruments were lying in wait of their musicians.  The candles were lit.  The chairs and cushions were placed about the room in attendance of wearied partiers.

There was not a single soul to enjoy it.

“Adar?” Legolas called into the room anyway.  “Gimli?  Aragorn?  Pippin, Merry, Frodo, Sam?  Gandalf?”  And he might have gone on, to name elf friends long known, but the pervading silence of the room weighed down upon him, and his voice faltered.

He walked his father’s palace and there was no one there but him.  No one in the bedrooms, no one in the kitchens, no one in the cellars or the waiting halls or the throne room or the gardens or the library or offices or any room he thought to look in.  Not even in the dungeons or the storage rooms or the cellar.  He was alone, and yet, the palace did not feel unoccupied.  It was not like walking through a ruin; candles still burned, fires looked tended to, items lay about as though someone had just been using them or were about to.  It felt more as though, in every room he walked into, all the occupants had just left.

“What enchantment could this be?” Legolas asked, “To steal away everyone except for me?”

In the end, he returned to the Hall of Mourning.  It was where the enchantment had started.  Perhaps it was where it would end.  And if nothing else, the Hall was not quite as abandoned as other rooms felt.  The trees still grew there, and the flowers.  Legolas could feel the life in them.  Something else lived.

He approached a tree and laid his hand on it, only to jerk it back.  The tree was sorrowful, as though in mourning, but that is not what caused him to flinch back.  It was as though there was an invisible wall between his spirit and that of the tree that repelled him.  He could sense its life and its sadness but could not touch it as he should have been able to, and it did not seem to feel him.  What could cause that?

“Legolas?”

This time, when he turned, the speaker was still there.  He stared at the other elf in surprise.  Of all the elves he might have met in this strange and empty world, the former captain of the guard was not one he might have expected.

“Tauriel?” he said in return, not sure whether it was she or if this was some strange spirit taking on the face of an old friend.  It did look like Tauriel, though her choice in clothes were as odd as his own.  They were the garb of a warrior, but in white rather than the usual green and brown.  Like his own clothes, they were covered in silver symbols, faint but intricate, but unlike his own clothes hers were more worn, looking almost gray in places, though the overall impression remained that of a brilliant white.  Most disturbing were the signs of wounds.  There was a small tear surrounded by a red stain upon her chest, much as one would find in a person pierced by an arrow to the heart, yet that couldn’t be because such a wound would be fatal and here she stood.  The cloth at her wrists was torn to shreds as well, and stained red.  Finally, there was a cut upon her neck.  For some reason, Legolas found that wound uglier than the rest, though it was small, hardly more than a scratch and not of the same fatal nature as that which marred her chest and wrists.

“Tauriel?” he said again, having taken the time to look her over and try to process how she came to be there or how she got her wounds.  She stared at him in return, her expression assessing and calm, though he could see contrasting emotions in her eyes: perhaps sorrow, perhaps fear, perhaps merely surprise.

“I did not look to ever see you here,” Tauriel said, seeming to find her tongue at last.  “In fact, I hoped I would not, even if it left me cursed for an eternity.”  Legolas didn’t know how to answer those words.  He had no idea what she meant by them.  Finally, it was Tauriel who spoke again.

“You were betrayed.”

“No,” Legolas denied immediately.  He did not know what had happened, but he could not imagine something so dark.  Not now, with the war over and the dark defeated.

“It’s written on your soul,” Tauriel said.  “Even as I bear my wounds that killed me.”

“You are dead?” Legolas asked, startled and sickened and horrified all at once.  “When?  How?  Was it an arrow?”  He found himself reaching to touch the wound at her chest, the one that certainly looked fatal but that he had discounted because she did not stand as one hurt, but he stopped short of touching her.

“You were not told of my death?” she asked.  He only stared with wide eyes, one hand still stretched towards her.  “I left a letter for you.  I suppose your father chose not to pass it on.  It is well.  I think I meant to wound you with my final words, though I didn’t know it at the time.  I was in pain and lashed out.  This heart wound that you now see, it was invisible then.  Soul wounds often are.”

Still confused by this talk of souls and death, Legolas nonetheless found he started to understand.  This was a vision.  His own spirit now walked in a spirit realm where Tauriel was trapped.  Perhaps this was his chance to free her to walk in the Halls of Mandos.

“Your love for the dwarf,” Legolas said.  “I understand it now.  I, too, have a strong friendship with a dwarf, and I do not look forward to the day I must be parted with my mortal friend.  Is it your love that so wounded you?”

“Your father tried to warn me.  I did not understand.  My time with Kili was brief, but our love was real, and his death was a wound I could not bear.  It was not the killing blow, however.  I thought I had lost everything.  The respect of my king and all the kingdom, for I had defied them.  The death of my love.  And a centuries long friendship with a prince who neither understood nor wanted to.”

“I stood at your side,” Legolas answered, confused.  He could see she had been in pain, but surely she didn’t believe herself so friendless!  “I loved you as though you were my own sister.  I grieved when my father told me you had chosen to leave, to leave without saying goodbye.”

“I did say goodbye,” she whispered, looking as pained as Legolas had ever seen her.  “I did, and it was wrong of me to say it as I did.  It was wise of your father to keep it from you.  I was in pain and I wanted to share that pain with others.  I would have made you feel as if my actions were your fault.  I know you too well, Legolas Thranduilion.  I knew what words would wound.  I was a child, lashing out at the world for wronging me, and pretending I myself had done no wrong.”

“You wrote me a letter before you left?” Legolas asked.  He still didn’t understand.  Was this really Tauriel before him, wounded and in pain, and speaking words that his own heart rejected as untrue?  He could not imagine that this was the Tauriel he knew, that he had long years of friendship with, who was practically raised alongside him as a baby sister.  Tauriel had never, in the entirety of their friendship, acted to hurt him.  Tease him, perhaps, but never maliciously, never to wound.  That was not who Tauriel was.  She was the elfling who followed in his shadow as they trained.  She was his comrade in arms, his shield sister as they faced the darkness together.  A part of her had imprinted upon his very soul, a love so deep he had, for a time, almost mistaken it for the love one might feel for a wife.  It was a love reserved for family.

He had never once doubted her.  He did not doubt her now, and this wounded spirit’s talk of soul wounds and hurtful letters confused him.  She stared him in the eye, then raised her hands, showing off the wounds at her wrists.

“I wrote the letter before I died,” she said.  “And so my actions left these wounds upon my soul.”

“You cut your own wrists?” Legolas demanded, utterly shocked, but he could not deny the sight before him.

“No,” she answered.  “The wounds of the soul are not literal.  No arrow pierced my heart, and no blades took my wrists.  I was a warrior to the end.  I wrote my letter and I left, alone, to fight my final battle against the creatures of darkness.  I did not intend to survive, and I didn’t.”

“Then, if you died, why did you not journey to the Halls of Mandos?”  Surely these are not those Halls?”

Tauriel didn’t answer at once, but she suddenly looked aged.  Not as mortals age, but as the immortals age, as though the weight of long years rested heavily upon her.  By elf standards, Tauriel was still quite young, younger even than Legolas himself.  How did she come to look so aged?

It was not Tauriel’s voice, in the end, that answered Legolas’s question.  A voice came from behind him, a kingly voice, full of hidden power and wisdom.

“The elf maiden called Tauriel was given a penance,” said the voice.  “For she dared a deed that is unforgiveable, the greatest offence an elf might commit.”

Legolas turned.

He knew his father’s halls well.  There was no doorway behind him, and yet, there was a doorway now.  It stood open, and beyond it was light and the distant sound of voices and music, not unlike the sounds of a great feast.  Standing in the doorway was a man, or at least the figure of a man, tall and stern.  There was something about him that made him hard to look at.  He spoke again.

“Legolas Thranduilion, Prince of the Greenwood, a member of the Fellowship, seasoned warrior, and Friend to all of the free races,” said the man, his eyes roaming over Legolas as though reading his life’s story.  “You are not meant to enter my Halls, yet here you stand.”

“I do not understand, my lord,” Legolas answered, because he didn’t.

“No, my child,” said the man, his voice surprisingly gentle, for all his face remained dispassionate and stern.  “You would not.  Well, I will not keep you long from entering, for there are those who long to greet you.”

“But I’m not dead,” Legolas answered, and then felt very foolish to have said it.  There was every indication that he was, in fact, standing before the Halls of Mandos, somehow, and therefore the powerful seeming man before him was, in fact, the Vala Namo, known more commonly as Mandos.  If Mandos himself was telling Legolas it would soon be time to enter his halls, then surely Legolas had to be dead.  Yet, how could death have come so suddenly that Legolas himself had no memory of it happening?

“Child,” said the Vala, “I do not make mistakes.  Your spirit now stands before me, your mortal wounds imprinted upon your soul.  You are dead.”

Legolas did not know how to react to this.  He turned to look once more at Tauriel, who was now staring at the ground, as though to avoid looking at either of them.  The red of her blood stood out starkly, and Legolas looked down upon himself once more, but still saw no sign of any wounds.  His clothes remained whole and white from top to bottom. 

As though answering the question Legolas hadn’t asked, Mandos spoke again.

“The wounds of betrayal are not seen on one’s front.”

With great effort and even greater misgiving, Legolas turned his head about to try and see his own back.  Twisting his body, he could see no wound or tear on his cloak, nor the backs of his legs when he swept the cloak aside.  Even his great dexterity could not allow him to see his own back, but there he did, at last, see the first sign of what Tauriel, and now Mandos, had spoken of.  He could not see the wound, but there was a red stain, just barely visible when he twisted his neck as far as it would go. 

Startled, for he felt no pain to suggest a wound, he brought his hands around to feel for it.  He found the cloth of his back stiff and damp, and in the middle, but slightly to the left, there was a long tear.  Beneath the tear his skin felt…strange.  He withdrew his fingers quickly and was surprised to find they weren’t wet with blood, for it felt as though they should have been, and yet they were dry and pale and showed no sign of what he had just touched.

“I was stabbed?” Legolas asked, still not quite convinced that this was real and that he was not trapped in some strange vision, or nightmare.

“The wounds of our soul are not literal,” Tauriel told him again.  “You bear the mark of betrayal.  You were killed, or you died, through the actions of one you trusted.”

“I don’t remember dying,” Legolas said.  If only he could remember what had happened, perhaps this would begin to make sense!  Yet his memory still ended at the feast, and he could not imagine anyone there to be the cause of his death.

“You would not remember,” Mandos said.  “You are not deserving of the memory.”

“What do you mean, not deserving?” Legolas demanded before he could think better of speaking thus to one of the Vala, particularly this one who had the power to allow him in or cast him away.  “What did I do that was so horrible?”

“You misunderstand, child,” Mandos answered, his voice not angry but that of an instructor correcting a student.  “You are not deserving of the memory because you are not deserving of punishment.  I hold the memory for you.  I remember all.”

Legolas did not know what to say to that.  He thought he needed that memory so he could make sense of what had happened, and at the same time feared what must have been a very horrible occurrence if the memory was kept from him.  In the end, he turned his thoughts away from himself, and instead concentrated on the fate of the other dead elf present.

“And what about Tauriel?”

“She has been dealt with as she deserves.”

Legolas turned to look at her again.  She was still staring at her own feet.  She looked small, and very young, and ashamed.

“Do you punish her for causing her own death?” Legolas asked, wanting desperately to do something to help her and not knowing how.  If Mandos were so cruel as to deny her for that, then Legolas wasn’t sure how he might respond.  He had followed her when his own father had her banished.  Would he do so when the banisher was a Vala?  It was not Mandos who answered him, however, but Tauriel.

“My crime is far more severe than that of an elfling throwing a temper tantrum, for all I behaved as such.  My wounds are justly awarded, and it is not for the wounds of my wrists, or my heart, that I must pay a penance.”

There was only one other wound that Legolas could see.  It was small and pitiful, something that should have healed in a day, perhaps even in an hour, though there were no signs of such healing.  The cut at her neck shone red with blood.  Legolas still thought it an ugly wound, though he could not say why.

“How did you receive the wound upon your neck?” he asked.  Tauriel didn’t answer for a long moment, and Mandos didn’t answer for her.  Finally, she raised her head and looked Legolas directly in the eye.

“I raised my weapon against my kin,” she said.  “For this, I have the mark of a kinslayer.  Had I acted and released the arrow, the mark would have been a full slash across my throat, and I would have been banned forever from the Halls of Mandos.  As it is, my crime deserves punishment, and so I am here, until the one I wronged comes to release me.”

Legolas didn’t know how to answer those words.  They made no sense.  When had Tauriel ever raised her weapon against an elf?

“You yourself were witness to the deed,” Mandos said, his voice startling as it came unexpectedly from behind, no mercy or kindness in his words, only a kingly sort of power.  “I thought you, yourself, might be judged deserving of her fate, for you intervened on her behalf, yet I see now no such mark upon your soul.”

There was only one event in Legolas’s memory that matched their words.

“You drew your arrow upon my father,” Legolas said.  He remembered that, of course.  It had been a horrible moment.  Even knowing that Tauriel would never have released the arrow, it was uncomfortable to see it aimed at his father.  And it was painful having two people he loved be at odds.  He had sided with the one who had seemed to him to most need it, for Tauriel was the one who stood alone.

“I did,” Tauriel answered, her eyes never leaving Legolas’s.  They were filled with pain and guilt and regret.  Her voice was gentle.  It was the voice she used when she feared her words would cause him pain.

“You would not have released it,” Legolas said.  He was absolutely certain.  Tauriel closed her eyes.  Mandos answered for her.

“And it is for this belief that you yourself do not share her mark,” he said.  “But there is no mistake.  She drew upon her kin with intent, even if only for a moment.  There is no greater crime.  Her penance is just.”

It’s not, Legolas wanted to scream.  He wanted to stomp his feet like an elfling and demand that Mandos look upon Tauriel with kinder eyes, that he see how she hadn’t meant it.  He wanted Tauriel herself to deny the words of Mandos.  Because they could not be true.  Tauriel looked pained, and everything in Legolas said to comfort her, and yet he found himself rooted to the spot.

“You did not intend my father’s death,” Legolas said, and it was meant as a statement but it came out almost as a question.  Tauriel did not answer the question.  How could she not answer the question?  He knew her, as well as he knew anyone, and he knew she didn’t have it in her to kill his father.  Thranduil was practically a father to her as well.  When Tauriel still didn’t answer, he turned again to face Mandos.

“She would not have released the arrow,” he said again, something inside of him desperate for the Vala to hear his words and agree with them.  “Must she be punished for all eternity when she acted for love of another?”

“She will be released when the one she has wronged comes and agrees to release her.”

“Then it may as well be eternity, because my father is immortal.”

“That would have been so,” Mandos agreed, “If not for the betrayer.  It won’t be long now.”

Those words were like ice to Legolas’s heart.  His father was soon to die?  Who was this betrayer?  Who had killed Legolas?  Who now went to kill his father?  Was there any way to stop them?

“My father cannot die!” Legolas exclaimed, everything in him crying out to act and prevent it from happening, though he didn’t see how he could from within this spirit world.  “Who would kill him!”

“An old wound,” Mandos answered, “Reopened anew.  It will not be long.  You will enter my Halls together.”

Well, that, at least, didn’t sound so bad.  If his father had to die, at least death wouldn’t be a separation.  The ice in his heart began to recede as the shock of Mandos’s dire announcement faded.  Legolas had not wanted to die, nor did he want his father dead, but going together was not so evil a fate, and there were many he would delight to be reunited with.  His mother would surely be there, and his grandparents, and many old friends taken by the darkness.

And surely Tauriel would join them.  He felt shaken and unsure of her after hearing what that wound upon her neck meant, but his love remained and he did not wish her to wander lost forever, not for a brief lapse in judgement which she would never have followed through on.  Surely she never would.

When a fourth person joined them, Legolas was almost looking forward to the reunion.  So it was rather a shock when the elf who stepped into the courtyard from the shadows was not his father at all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: The same as last chapter apply, possibly even more-so, as the newcomer has worse wounds to describe.
> 
> Also...if you read the FIRST posting of this chapter which included elves with such lofty names as 'Jane' and 'John'...sorry. I was so excited to finish writing the chapter I actually forgot I hadn't gotten around to making up names for the OC elves...and so you got their 'place' names that I meant to do a search/replace with later. All fixed now.

The elf was so wretched in appearance that Legolas could scarcely recognize the bloodied figure standing before them as one of his own fair race.  Like Legolas and Tauriel, the elf wore clothing embroidered with what seemed to be a life history.  Unlike their own, the clothes were more gray than white, the embroidery in places silver, in places red, and in places black.  There were slash wounds all about the elf’s body, mostly small and shallow but for one long slash across the chest that looked deeper.  Most grotesque was the slash across the neck.  As with Tauriel, Legolas found that wound the most ugly and disturbing, despite the chest wound being longer and bloodier.  He did not know what all the other marks upon the elf represented, but he now well knew what that neck wound meant.  Kinslayer.

The bloodied soul looked more corpse than spirit, and Legolas instinctively moved to shield Tauriel.  It didn’t particularly work as Tauriel had apparently had the same instinct, and instead of one leaping in front of the other they both collided together, almost sending them both to the ground in a very un-elf-like fall but their natural agility saved them and they merely stumbled and wound up shoulder to shoulder.

The worst part of the apparition was that it was not a stranger.  Behind the wounds was a face Legolas knew quite well.  It felt like it was only an hour ago that they had talked.  An hour ago when Legolas would have called this grotesque apparition one of his closest friends.

_Legolas stood among old friends, old enough to be called childhood friends except that, the nature of elves being what it was, Legolas had had very few friends who had actually been a child when he had been.  One such friend was Elechant who now hovered at his side, looking slightly puzzled as Gimli shared a story of their journey.  Legolas wasn’t sure if he was puzzled by the story, which dealt with an amusing mealtime misadventure starring the hobbits, or if he was puzzled by having had Legolas introduce the dwarf to him as a friend, but either way he listened intently and respectfully._

_At Legolas’s other side were Ladir and Gurwen, an elf and elf maiden who between them had at least a thousand years on Legolas, but nonetheless could be call his peers.  There were many an adventure they’d had together, from the days when Legolas was an elfling, trailing after the ‘formidable warriors’, as he had seen them then, to the time the young prince grew up enough to join them and eventually forge a strong friendship and trust.  They had battled spiders together, played pranks together, sung together._

_What they had not done was go on a quest across Middle Earth to destroy the one ring together.  It was a strange feeling, to stand next to his closest friends and yet feel somehow apart from them.  His friendship with the nine walkers felt equally as strongly forged, for all it was so much newer.  When an elf felt, it felt deeply, and Legolas was no exception.  Still, he could not blame Gurwen or Ladir for being a bit taken aback by his new friendships.  They were older than him still, but in some ways Legolas felt older than them now.  He had seen battles they had not, walked in woods and cities they had never tread.  He had met an ent.  He knew the real worth of a dwarf friend.  He had heard a sea gull’s call, and somehow heard it still.  He was changed, in some ways grown and in some ways diminished, and they…they were still the same Gurwen and Ladir and Elechant._

_“Are you not ill, Legolas?” asked Gurwen, and Legolas tried hard to give her the attention she deserved, though he couldn’t help but track his newer friends about the room.  Gimli nearby made him feel at once more at ease and at the same time, more tense.  It was good to have his friend close, but he knew how many elves thought of dwarves, particularly Erebor dwarves.  He didn’t think any would dare malign one the king had praised, but old prejudices can be hard to uproot.  So far, Elechant’s puzzlement seemed to be the worst offence the dwarf faced, but Legolas remained on guard._

_“No,” he managed to answer Gurwen, probably taking too long to do it, which is generally a bad idea when questions concern one’s health.  She’d be convinced he was at death’s door soon if he couldn’t manage a more satisfactory answer.  “No, I’m merely distracted.  I don’t seem to quite believe I’m home.”_

_“Of course our Legolas is not well,” Ladir said, and Legolas tensed.  The truth was, he wasn’t sick but he wasn’t well.  He was still battle tense.  Worse, even here, at home, in his father’s halls, in the forest of his childhood, he could still hear the whisper of the ocean.  It pulled at him, gentle and distant but pervasive, so that his own home felt like it belonged to someone else.  Perhaps to a younger Legolas who had gotten lost somewhere on the journey.  Where there should have been peace and joy, there displacement._

_If Ladir somehow knew about these torments, then Legolas could only hope he’d not bring them up just then, at this festive occasion.  It was not the time or place, if there ever was a time and place.  Legolas knew his father already knew, though he had said nothing.  Could his closest friends not do the same?_

_Ladir didn’t mention the sea, or his tenseness, or any other ailment of that nature.  When he spoke again, Legolas almost wished he had._

_“Do you not see the company he was forced to keep?  It’s enough to turn anyone’s stomach, and he has endured months away from our good company.”_

_“I will thank you not to speak thus of my friends,” Legolas answered sharply, his eyes darting around to see if any of his newest mortal friends had heard the comment.  Gimli was close enough, but still engaged with Elechant, and besides, Ladir had spoken in sylvan and Gimli at best spoke a few words of Sindarin._

_Ladir didn’t look contrite so much as nonplused.  Gurwen raised an eyebrow._

_“It’s not like they understand us,” she said.  “Relax, Legolas.  You’re among friends here.”_

_It was a phrase meant to comfort.  How many times had they returned from the forest and confronted each other’s continued jumpiness with that simple reminder?  Legolas felt himself tensing up even tighter instead._

_He was among friends.  Old friends.  New friends.  Why did he feel so disconnected?_

_“I would not let them speak so of you, whether you understood their words or no,” Legolas answered.  “Do not speak so of them.”_

_Ladir opened his mouth, and from his expression it was not to apologize, but at that moment Galion, with a supernatural ability to sense impending conflict and stave it off, came to them to offer glasses of wine._

_He did this more as a friend than in his role as a servant, being the king’s butler, not Legolas’s, but it was a welcome distraction nonetheless._

_Legolas thanked him and took a sip, trying willfully to return his mindset to the party atmosphere._

_“As I have been away, surely you have new stories for what you have been up to?” Legolas asked, and their conversation became much lighter and he remembered again what it felt like to be among ancient friends._

_The wine and the stories lightened his soul, even the murmur of the sea held at bay for the moment, and he began to truly enjoy the festivities and feel himself at home.  His father caught his eye from across the room and Legolas smiled.  There was his father, there elves and comrades he had known his entire life, there newer but equally dear friends he had walked the quest with.  All was well, and laughter filled the hall._

_He listened to Ladir’s story, and then Gurwen’s, and then Ladir started to tell what he considered a truly humorous tale concerning some dwarves he had seen in Laketown.  Instead of frowning again, Legolas sighed to himself, for he could remember a time when he would have found the story very funny indeed.  It didn’t seem so now.  He didn’t chastise his friend again though.  Instead, his attention started to waver, and he found himself seeking out his mortal friends, feeling an inexplicable urge to keep track of them._

_Gimli had moved only slightly, though Elechant had been replaced by a different elf and Elechant himself was now listening in to Ladir’s story with an easy grin.  Gandalf was still avoiding Legolas’s father, alternatively setting up fireworks and sneaking back into the hall for food and wine.  The rest of the fellowship were together, only slightly mingling.  The hobbits had converged on the food and had taken over a table only a short distance from Legolas.  Aragorn was with them, sitting back in a corner as he was want to do in his ranger days, though currently much better groomed and with a soft smile on his face, eyes on the dancers by the fire, clearly enjoying himself._

_As Legolas watched, the youngest hobbit leaned in towards the king, and Legolas found himself listening in, rather than paying Ladir’s story any more attention._

_“So…if he were a hobbit, how old would Legolas be?”_

_Pippen’s question was probably meant to be discrete.  Despite all the time they spent together on their journey and beyond, the young hobbit still hadn’t learned just how keen an elf’s ears could be._

_“That is not an easy question to answer.”  Aragorn’s response was quiet, but Legolas could hear a hint of humor in his voice.  The man, unlike the hobbit, did know that Legolas could hear, and, as his eyes darted briefly towards the elf, he must realize they did, in fact, have the elf’s attention.  Legolas was almost afraid of what Aragorn would say next, but the words that came weren’t too horrible.  “An elf of his age has time enough to obtain mastery in any subject he might pursue.  Indeed, several masteries.  In that sense, our friend could be considered as a hobbit elder, easily as old as Bilbo Baggins or older.”_

_If Legolas hadn’t known Aragorn better, he might have thought the man intended to shield Legolas from the potential teasing and embarrassment that the hobbit’s well-meaning curiosity could open the elf up to.  Legolas did know Aragorn better.  This wasn’t going to be the end of it._

_“And in another sense?”  That was Merry, far too shrewd by a half to miss that Aragorn hadn’t yet told all._

_“Elves are an immortal race.  In that sense, our friend is still quiet young.  He is less wearied by the world, but also, more impulsive and prone to mischief.  In terms of maturity, I believe his age would be comparable to a hobbit in his tweens.”_

_“But, that makes him younger than me!” Pippen exclaimed, forgetting to be quiet in his shock.  “Is he even of age?”  At that, and before Aragorn could come up with an even worse description, Legolas approached them to speak for himself._

_“I assure you, I obtained my majority many hundreds of years ago.  I am no child.”_

_“As you see,” Aragorn said to Pippen, his eyes twinkling with mirth, “A young tween who would eavesdrop on his elders’ conversation and then impulsively leap in to defend himself.”_

_“Legolas?” Ladir’s call reminded Legolas of who he had been supposed to be listening to, and between that and Aragorn’s mirthful rebuke, he could feel the tips of his ears turning red._

_“And you like to call us children!”  To Legolas’s deepening horror, the dwarf had joined them soon enough to hear Aragorn’s last remark, no doubt drawn over by Legolas’s sudden move, and Gimli felt the need to add his own opinion.  “Now I understand.  It’s the airs of youthful pride!”_

_“As I said, Aragorn has completely misrepresented the situation,” Legolas insisted, trying to salvage his reputation before his mortal friends could take up calling him elfling, or, even worse, get it in their heads he should be treated as one._

_“Oh…I don’t know about that.”  And_ now _was the time that Gurwen decided to be in accordance with his new friends?  Legolas missed when they were at odds.  He hadn’t known how good he had it.  “You are almost the youngest mature elf in all the Greenwoods.”_

_Aragorn was smirking.  Pippen looked apologetic; as someone who had actually been underage when he went on the quest, he could appreciate not wanting to be seen as a child the most, and certainly hadn’t meant Legolas any mischief with his innocent questions.  Frodo looked like he was almost laughing, which left Legolas split between being delighted at this rare show of joy and dismayed that it was at his own expense.  The delight won.  That didn’t mean he was going to allow Aragorn and Ladir to get away with it._

_“You are very quick to make light of my great age, Estel,” Legolas said.  “Considering at what venerable age you were when we met.  If I am a child, then surely you are but a babe in arms.”_

_Aragorn could have pointed out that he was a human versus Legolas being an elf, but the man was not one to maliciously pursue ridiculing anyone beyond light teasing, and so he merely shrugged and conceded the point.  Besides, Legolas had just reminded him of the kind of story Legolas could share, should Aragorn persist.  Gimli, unfortunately, was not so ready to give it up._

_“I should still like to know if you weren’t compensating for something, all this talk of us children all this time.  What was that, if you are practically a babe yourself?”_

_Legolas could have then mentioned having seen Gimli’s baby picture, but it was probably best all around not to bring that up.  Definitely for the best._

_“I may be young for an elf, but in terms of experience I am your senior.  All mortals seem as children to elves.”_

_“Which doesn’t change the fact that you aren’t a senior,” Gimli insisted.  “Child.”_

_Ladir and Gurwen laughed out loud.  Elechant, at least, wasn’t prepared to mock, considering he’d come off the worse.  He was younger than Legolas by half a year._

_“Well, go on, my young prince,” said Gurwen, with just the slightest bit too much emphasis on the word ‘young’.  “Are you going to take that from a dwarf?”  She backed this up with a hand to his shoulder.  Perhaps the wine in Legolas’s glass was stronger than he thought, for the unexpected move had him stumbling forward into the table._

_Instead of laughing at his clumsiness, everyone around him immediately looked concerned._

_“Legolas?” Aragorn asked, and Legolas felt his ears going even redder than when everyone was teasing him about his youth.  Even the teasing was better than being the reason everyone turned serious and concerned._

_“I’m fine,” Legolas answered quickly._

_“No doubt the wine has been too much for his youthful head,” Ladir suggested, to which Legolas exaggerated his expression of annoyance and was relieved to see the smiles returned once more.  Better that they laugh at his expense than lose their laughter because of him._

_Aragorn still didn’t smile though, his eyes intent as they looked Legolas over, and it was evident he found something he didn’t like.  Legolas didn’t know what to do to reassure him, but then Elechant started in on a story about his own less than graceful dive off a tree after over-imbibing, and the humor and good company soothed everyone and Aragorn relaxed again._

_Legolas was laughing.  He was happy, and the wine was good, and he was home._

_And someone called his name, and he turned, and he was dead._

Legolas was dead and Tauriel was dead and so, it now seemed, was one of his oldest and closest friends.

“Ladir?”

“How could you?” Tauriel demanded, taking advantage of Legolas’s horror and confusion to slide in front of him at last.  “You were our friend.  You were _his_ friend.  _How could you_?!”

Gently, Legolas placed a hand on Tauriel’s shoulder.  It was the first time since meeting her in this spirit place that he had dared to touch her.  He had been half afraid, before, to find her insubstantial, or cold, like a corpse.  He didn’t even think about that now.  He acted on instinct, first to soothe her, and then to pull her aside.  She stepped away reluctantly.  Ladir didn’t move.  He stood and looked Legolas in the eye, and he smiled.

“Ladir?” Legolas said again.  “I don’t understand.  Did you kill me?”

The stranger with Ladir’s face looked confused, then offered him a smile, the exact same look he had upon completing a prank on his friends and then inviting them to find the humor.  In spite of everything, Legolas found himself desperately hoping this had been a prank, a prank gone horribly wrong, but a mistake rather than the evil Ladir’s appearance had suggested.

“Do you not remember?” Ladir asked, the neck wound apparently causing no hindrance to speech.  “I told you, I was saving you.”

“That is the mark of a kinslayer across your throat,” Legolas said, still not sure what to feel, because what seemed to be the truth could not be.  He felt the burden of his missing memories most keenly, for it was obvious that Ladir was not so encumbered.  “I do not know how your other wounds came about.”

Ladir looked down at himself, as though noticing the blood for the first time.  Legolas expected him to look horrified, or at least contrite, but he only looked puzzled again.  It was Tauriel who answered Legolas’s comment.

“The cuts are what happens when one sets out to injure another.  Every injury you do with intent to cause pain tears at your own soul.”

Wondering how Tauriel could have become such an expert on soul wounds, Legolas nonetheless immediately found a flaw in her explanation.  “I have slain many, and I bear no such wounds.”

“You have fought with a warrior’s heart,” said Mandos, again startling Legolas who had been so focused upon Ladir that he had forgotten who was behind him.  One would think it would be harder to forget a Vala’s presence, and yet he had, at least twice now.  “You never struck with intent to cause pain, but rather with a doctor’s eye to remove that which is disease and ruin.”

Ladir, for the first time, looked absolutely shocked.  Apparently he hadn’t noticed the Vala either.

“Is that Mandos, with his halls behind him?” he asked.  “And we are truly dead?”

“The long slash across your chest,” said Tauriel, “That represents violent death.  Those who fall through battle often bear such a mark.”

Neither Tauriel nor Legolas bore it, though.  Tauriel, who said she died fighting the darkness, and Legolas, who could not remember dying but apparently hadn’t fought his friend.

“I do not,” Tauriel explained, though Legolas hadn’t asked, “because I was not trying to live, and so the killing wound was not them, but myself.”  She did not try to explain why Legolas bore no such mark.  He hadn’t been in a battle.  Ladir was a friend.  His wound was also worn in a different place than across his chest.

“Is that what all the blood is for?” asked Ladir.  “I thought I appeared as I must have in death.  I suppose it was the dwarf that felled me.  Or your father.  I do wonder…do you think he will have the mark of kinslayer too, when it’s his turn to stand judgement?”

Ladir spoke as though merely mildly curious, as though he weren’t bearing the evidence of his life’s crimes upon his body, but even before Legolas could process his own emotions in response, Ladir suddenly flinched, and held up his arm.  Even as they watched, a thin line of red welled up anew, crossing over another such wound.

“Intent to cause pain is not limited to the physical,” Mandos intoned, his voice severe.  Suddenly, Tauriel spun about to face the Vala, her expression furious, and Legolas looked on in alarm.  He didn’t know if he should be shielding her from Ladir, or perhaps stepping between her and Mandos before she made her situation with him worse.

“Why do you not cast him out?” Tauriel demanded.  “I have seen you deal thus with such a soul before.  Why do you allow him to mock the one he has betrayed?  Or if you cannot send him away, why not allow Legolas to enter, for clearly he is blameless!”

“All shall be where they are meant to be soon.  No more harm will be allowed here, unless you inflict it upon yourselves.”  Mandos did not sound upset by Tauriel’s harsh words, but something about them seemed to quiet her nonetheless.  They were just so certain that all was as it should be.

“Is that true?” Ladir asked.  Then, without warning, he lunged at Legolas.  Normally, Legolas would have dodged away or defended himself, but his heart still hadn’t accepted Ladir as a threat and his attention had been turned away to Tauriel and Mandos.  Despite this, Ladir didn’t touch him.  He certainly tried to, Legolas shying away too late to stop the contact, but somehow Ladir’s hands slid away and failed to contact.  Ladir stumbled back; for the first time since arriving he actually looked frightened.

For a long moment, the two old friends looked at each other, one heartsick and confused, the other afraid and angry.  Then Ladir’s equilibrium returned to him and he smiled once more.

“You truly have no memory of our time together?” he asked.

“I remember our long friendship.  My memories stop at the feast.  I remember…stumbling from the wine.  Did you poison me?”

“I did,” said Ladir, “But that is not how you died.  Shall I tell you?  Surely it is distressing to lose such a memory.  First I helped you from the room, as a concerned friend, of course.  Then I…”

But it was as though a bell were ringing in Legolas’s head, and though he could clearly hear Tauriel’s gasp from beside him, he could not hear a word from Ladir.  Tauriel looked at Legolas, clearly waiting for a reaction, but the only reaction he could give was continued confusion.

“I cannot hear your words,” he said, and at least had the satisfaction of wiping the smirk off Ladir’s face.  Ladir scowled, glaring past Legolas at Mandos.

“As I said, no harm will come to any of you now.”

That didn’t seem quite true, for Tauriel looked a bit ill and Ladir frowned like a child denied its favorite toy and Legolas felt keenly the weight of missing memories, and nothing could stop the pain in his heart from seeing his longtime friend so disfigured and cruel.

For long minutes, they all waited, though only Mandos knew what they were waiting for.  Finally, Legolas could stand the not-knowing no longer, and asked a question close to his heart, and only hoped that it, at least, would be allowed to be answered.

“Why did you kill me?”

“I told you, my friend,” said Ladir, “Though I suppose you’ve forgotten.  I did it to save you.  I could feel your pain.  The sea called to you, did it not?  I’ve seen that illness before.  I knew you’d never be content, but you’d refuse to leave, for you loved your friends too keenly.  You had said as much, that you meant to stay for _them_.”

“No,” said Legolas.  “You lie.  You have done nothing as a friend since arriving here.  You did not mean to save me.  You meant to cause me pain.  I can see your soul.”

“You’re right,” he said.  “I did mean to cause pain, but not yours, my prince.  No, I wanted to cause them pain.  Those undeserving mortals who dared to claim friendship.  A man, hobbits, a dwarf.  And your father who allowed it, who welcomed them.  They wanted to bind you to our lands, even knowing you’d never be at peace.”

“You killed me…for loving mortals?”

“I killed you to hurt them.  And oh, how they did hurt. You should have heard their screams of anguish!  They found us, before quite the end, and I could see the torture in their eyes before they slew me.  I hoped to take at least one of them with me.  The man’s torture was brief, at least, if that should please you.”

But before he could quite feel the horror of Ladir’s words, to understand the implications, Mandos gainsaid them.

“If you had taken another life when your own was taken, that life would stand before us, no matter the race.  As it is, you did not so much as manage to bleed a single one of those who sent your own soul on.”

Ladir’s face twisted into a horrible snarling mask of rage, just for a moment, and then he was Ladir again.  Legolas stepped backwards, away from him.  He had his answer, and it still made no sense.  This was no the Ladir he had known since childhood.  It could not be.  And why did Mandos not now steal Ladir’s words away?  For surely hearing of his friend’s pain was as bad as hearing the details of his own death.

“Legolas!”

The scream was filled with anguish, the voice familiar, and Legolas spun about.  A new soul had joined them after all, though it was not Aragorn as Ladir had suggested, or any of his mortal friends.

“Ada!”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: concerning Legolas's age. For those not as familiar with hobbits, a hobbit in it's tweens is in its twenties. It is usually taken to be the human equivalent of teens, though I've sometimes wondered if Tolkien actually meant to imply that a person in their twenties is still very much a youth and that 33 would be a better age to consider a person an adult. At any rate, yes, Aragorn was implying Legolas was still a teenager.
> 
> I leave it up to the reader to decide whether Legolas really should be considered as a teenager or if that was merely Aragorn's teasing and, despite his relative youth compared to other elves, the elves still see him as an adult. I rather like the idea of teenage Legolas, but it isn't exactly book canon, and if you prefer a mature Legolas, then feel free to interpret him as such.


	3. Chapter 3

“Thranduil Oropherion,” said Mandos, as though announcing his presence, “Father, husband, warrior, protector, king.”

Legolas’s father did not pay the Vala any attention, his eyes glued to his son.  Like Legolas, like all spirits it seemed, he was dressed in white with elaborate silver writing.  Also like Legolas, he bore a crown, in the likeness to the one he crafted in the spring, but in white gold and jewels rather than flowers or leaves.  His soul wound was plain to see, for it was on his chest.  If Tauriel’s heart wound looked like she had taken an arrow, Thranduil looked like he’d been stabbed by a broad sword.  The entire front of his shirt was red with his blood, the hole over his heart large and terrible.  If Legolas had seen a body of flesh baring that wound, he’d have no doubt the body was dead.  Even knowing it was a soul wound, and that likely didn’t even cause true pain in this place, it was still disquieting to see.

“Legolas?” Thranduil said, not a scream this time but a whisper.  One arm reached for him, but he came no closer.  Legolas supposed it was the same as how he had treated Tauriel, unsure of reality and afraid to touch.  Legolas closed the gap between them, allowing his father’s fingers to brush against his arm.  The moment they made contact, the fingers curled to grasp him, almost hard enough to hurt.  Legolas opened his mouth, wanting to reassure his father that all was well, that he was well, but not quite knowing what to say.  They were dead.  That didn’t exactly fall under the purview of ‘well’.

Before Legolas could attempt to say anything, his father moved, and his arms were around his son, crushing Legolas to him, one hand on his shoulder, the other at the back of his head.  Legolas could not remember the last time he had been hugged like this by his father.  Perhaps not since he was an elfling.  It wasn’t that his father never showed his love, it was just that it hadn’t come in the form of an embrace in decades.  Perhaps centuries.  Startling though it felt, Legolas responded immediately, embracing his father in turn.  He could understand why his father needed it now; it felt good to reaffirm that his father stood before him.  Surely it had been even worse for his father, for he must remember seeing his son die.

The horror of the situation overpowered Legolas, and he clung to his father all the tighter.  He wanted to reassure him of his own wellness, and to chase away the pain his own death must have brought.  If he had felt a shard of ice to his heart at learning his father was to die, what must his father have felt to see his son dead with his own eyes?  And worse, to know they were separated?

Ladir had a lot to answer for.  He had murdered Legolas, and apparently had murdered him horribly if everyone else’s reactions were anything to go by.  He had murdered Legolas’s father, or as good as.  What had Mandos called it?  A wound reopened?  And here stood his father’s soul with a wound to the heart.  Surely it was Legolas’s own death that had caused his father’s demise, just as his wife’s death had threatened to if he hadn’t had Legolas to hold him to Middle Earth.  His father had known many deaths throughout his long life, and he felt the pain of them keenly, but it seemed the death of his son was one death too much to bear.

“I am well, Ada,” Legolas whispered.  His father still did not let him go, and Legolas was fine with that.  They could cling to each other as long as it took to feel real.  Thinking about what else he could say to ease his father’s pain, Legolas spoke on.  “I am well.  I feel no pain.  I don’t even hold the memory of how I died.”

That last comment did at last seem to penetrate, for Thranduil loosened his hold at last, though he didn’t let go completely, just pulled back enough that they could see each other.  Legolas was shocked to see tears in his father’s eyes, though they were keener than he’d ever seen.

“You do not remember?” Thranduil said, his first words that were not his son’s name.

“Mandos told me that I am not deserving of the memories.  I did not even know I was dead, before he told me.”

“And you are truly here.  We are truly here.  We are not parted.”

“We shall never be parted, Ada.”

“And what of the wound I saw, to your back?  It…does it pain you?”

“No more than you seem to feel the wound to your chest.  I did not even know it was there before Tauriel mentioned it.”

“Tauriel.”  His father looked around, apparently noticing the other souls for the first time.  His eyes narrowed sharply when he spotted Ladir, but it was Tauriel he remarked upon.  “So it is true then.  I had hoped…I knew your intent, but I thought perhaps you would fail or turn aside.  I hoped you had sailed, or found some other solace.”

“I am sorry, my lord,” Tauriel said, her voice filled with sorrow.  “I have waited long years to say that.  I am sorry for the manner of my leaving.  I am sorry for my rebellion.  I am sorry for how I used your son…” Legolas would have protested that last bit but Tauriel wasn’t finished, and he let her say her piece, for this was between her and her king, and had nothing to do with Legolas at all.  “…and I am sorry that I raised my weapon upon you, for even if I never let it fly, never would have let it fly, my heart desired to harm you in that moment.  I do not know that I wanted you dead, but my aim was true all the same, and if no part of me wished it, I do not think I could have aimed as I did.  I am sorry.”

Legolas could not see Tauriel’s face, not without pulling free of his father, and his father now clung to him tightly enough to make that difficult even if Legolas had been willing to pull away.  If his father needed to hold onto him so tightly, then Legolas had no intention of betraying him.  All the same, he wished he could see the others.

Thranduil listened to Tauriel’s apology with the same expression he had when he held court.  It wasn’t unlike the expression Mandos wore.  It was a kingly expression, not emotionless but not revealing either.  He accepted her words as his due.

“As your king, I would have you pardoned,” he said.  “As a father…”  And his hands held his son so tightly that Legolas actually wondered if Mandos was interfering somehow to stop his father’s grip from hurting.  He could feel the strength of the hold, but not the bruising pain that should have accompanied it.  He was glad, not because he didn’t want to be in pain, but because he knew how his father would feel if he realized he’d hurt him, even in so inconsequential a manner.

And to his words, Legolas again wanted to protest, to plea Tauriel’s case, but somehow, though he’d had no problem arguing with a Vala, he instinctively knew that he couldn’t do the same with his father.  Besides, he didn’t know what he’d be protesting, for he didn’t understand his father’s words.  Why did he find it harder to forgive as a father than as a king?  Her actions had nothing to do with Legolas.  Or was it because he had seen Tauriel as a daughter?  But then, surely he’d be more forgiving.

“Thranduil,” said Mandos, and Legolas felt a slight tremor in his father through his hold.  He felt a sudden urge to start laughing.  Apparently his father wasn’t immune either to forgetting the presence of a Vala even as they stood on the threshold of his kingdom.

“My lord,” Thranduil said, his body moving in an aborted attempt at a bow, as he found himself thwarted by his hold on his son.

“The time of judgement has come.  This daughter of the forest has been found guilty of holding her weapon on her kin with intent.  You are her victim.  What say you?  Shall I now allow her to be forgiven and to enter my Halls, or shall she be cast out for all of time?”

Legolas tensed, but almost immediately he relaxed once more.  He knew his father as well as any son can know a parent.  He had nothing to fear from his father’s verdict.  He wanted to turn then, to give Tauriel a reassuring smile, for he doubted she was nearly as serene in his father’s judgement.  His father was still holding onto him though, almost as though he were an anchor for him, and Legolas was loathe to pull away, even for Tauriel.  His father needed him more.

Unfortunately, it was not only the three of them their awaiting his father’s verdict, nor even the four of them if one counted Mandos.  Up to then, Ladir seemed content to watch the reunion between father and son and to be ignored.  Legolas had truthfully half-forgotten he was there.  Apparently something about being a soul left him forgetful of anything not directly in front of him.  It seemed just as unlikely he’d forget about the presence of his own killer as it would be to forget the presence of a Vala, yet he had done so.  Ladir was not content to be forgotten.

“Well met, my king,” he said.  “Will you give her to me to be my bride as we wander the lonely paths together?  Surely she betrayed you just as I did.  And if I can’t have your son, your daughter would make a good substitution.  And after what she did to Legolas…if you slew me for harming your son, what will you do with her?”

Now even if Legolas was actively trying to, he was not sure he could have turned, so strongly did his father hold him in place.  Having his back to his betrayer was uncomfortable, and the words he spoke even more so, but Legolas still made no attempt to free himself.  Whatever would help his father, he would do.

“Oh,” said Ladir, his voice slowly coming closer.  “But what will your dear son do if you cast her out.  He followed her, the last time you banished her, didn’t he?  He left you for her.  Do you dare allow that to happen again?”

Thranduil acted at last, to push his son behind him, his hands grasping for weapons his soul did not have on him.  Now Legolas could turn and see, and it was horrible to gaze upon Ladir again, as though his own memory had softened his ghastly appearance and now he saw him in all his monstrosity anew.  Tauriel had moved closer to them, doubtless wanting to shield them from Ladir, but she didn’t seem to quite dare to step between them.  She surely didn’t fear Ladir, so it must be in respect to the king, not knowing if her protection would be welcome.

“I would stand with my father,” said Legolas, hoping his father didn’t need to hear those words after Ladir’s poisonous ones, but fearing he did.  Because Ladir was right; Legolas had chosen to help Tauriel over his father.  At the time it had seemed the obvious choice.  She stood alone and his father was surrounded by support.  Perhaps he had been wrong then.  It was too late now for second guessing his choices, though, far too late.  All he could do was make sure his father knew that he was supported, that come what may he would still support him.  The answer had seemed difficult before, when he wondered what he would do if Mandos banished Tauriel, but suddenly it was obvious now.  This was his father.  He could love both his father and Tauriel, but his loyalty was his father’s first.

“Would you?” Ladir asked.  “You’d abandon her now, to an eternity alone?  And you wouldn’t hate your father for making you choose?”

“That is a foolish question.”  It wasn’t Legolas who answered, though he had been about to.  Mandos apparently finally felt the need to interfere.  “His soul stands before you.  If he harbored such hatred, it would show itself, even as yours does.” 

Legolas looked down automatically, and was somewhat surprised to still see the unblemished white of his clothes.  He hadn’t forgotten what he was wearing, but he had thought that some of his father’s blood should have been left on him with how close they had held each other.

“Now, Kinslayer,” said Mandos, “You will be silent and await your turn in judgement.  Thranduil Oropherion, state your decision.”

Ladir stayed silent as commanded, but continued to smirk at them, clearly expecting the king’s answer to be vindictive or at least difficult and to cause more division and heartache.  Ladir appeared to revel in the potential heartache.  He obviously did not know the king at all.

“Let Tauriel be pardoned,” Thranduil said in an instant.

Ladir actually started in surprise, then glared towards them, but they were looking at Tauriel and paid him no more attention, not caring for his thoughts or hate twisted opinions.  Tauriel gasped, one hand going to her neck, her eyes overcome by emotion and she staggered.  When she pulled her hand away, Legolas saw the bloodied wound had closed, though it had left an ugly scar.  Mandos smiled upon her and spoke again.

“Then I name Tauriel kinslayer no more, and she shall be permitted to enter my halls, though her time may be long before she passes on from there.  Still, pass she shall, and she shall be welcomed by her own kin.”

Legolas smiled at her from behind his father.  He had never doubted the outcome, but even so it was a relief to hear it out loud, and seeing the horrible wound closed was also a relief.  He still could not say what made the wound so horrible to behold, yet it had repelled him in ways the scar did not, though he still found it ugly.  Her other wounds remained the same.

“Now, Kinslayer, it is your turn.”  Mandos’s voice was full of condemnation, but he still sat as a judge and there was no anger or malice in his tone.  Ladir approached them, not appearing repentant in the least, but standing proud, and smiling as though pleased.

“What do you say, old friend,” Ladir said towards Legolas, “Will you forgive me my crime?”

“You will not talk to my son,” Thranduil growled, one arm going back as though to ensure himself that Legolas was there, the other held up to ward off the monstrous being who had once been an elf.

“The judgement upon your soul had already been passed,” Mandos said calmly.  “Even should your victim wish it, he could not save you.”

And Legolas did not want to save him, not the monster that he saw before him, but if he could, he would have saved the friend he once had.  He still could not make up his mind that the two people were one and the same.  Eternity seemed a harsh sentence in any case, considering that death is not a permanent state, not always, not for elves.

“And are there no extenuating circumstances?” Lidar demanded of Mandos, still smirking somehow, even in the face of his own banishment.  “For years I have lived under the shadow.  Is it entirely my fault that I succumbed?”

“The shadows in your soul are of your own making, Kinslayer.  You twisted your love into something dark, making evil of good, and seeking to hurt for your own pleasure.  There will be no forgiveness.  Not from the Valar.  Not from me.  Your hatred marks you, as does your desire to harm even those who would love you.  Well, know this; you have failed.  For it is in my power to invite souls into my halls, but also it is in my power to return souls who have been cut before their time.  Your betrayal was not planned for.  Your victims are only now standing in the realm between.  You have failed in your evil.”

And for the first time, Ladir actually lost his smirk, his face morphing quickly into rage.

“I destroyed him!” he roared.  “I sent him beyond the sea, and those mortals who dared to call him friend writhe in agony through my deeds!  My marks on the world are deep and horrible and cannot be undone!”

“And I tell you, you have failed.  Now.  I NAME YOU KINSLAYER.  YOUR SOUL IS LOST.  NOW BEGONE.”

And the being who was once Ladir staggered, as though a great wind buffeted him.  Legolas could not see exactly how it happened, partly because he was still shielded by his father but partly because there are some things that are scarring to see, and Mandos himself shielded them all, but in the next moment, his betrayer was gone.

There was a long moment of stillness.  In the horrible moment of banishment, Tauriel had instinctively joined Thranduil and Legolas, and Thranduil had grabbed her as he would his own son, as he would any of his people who needed their king.  The three lost souls stood huddled together, listening to a howling that had already stopped, that they weren’t completely sure they had heard in the first place.  Then the moment passed, and Thranduil slowly dropped his protective stance, allowing his contact with Legolas and Tauriel to fall away, and he stood tall and regal to face Mandos before his gate.

“Is what you told him true?” he asked.  “Do we have a choice to go back?”

“You do,” Mandos answered.  “Tauriel must enter my halls either way, but you and your son could return to life.  Even now, the King of Gondor holds the gateway open.  He still hopes, though your lives are all but faded beneath him.”

“We can go back!” Legolas said, clasping his father by the shoulder.  Tauriel smiled at them, her eyes still shimmering.  She seemed completely overwhelmed by all that had come to pass.

“However,” said Mandos.  “Know this.  If you choose life, I can no longer shield you.  Legolas will have his memories restored.  Nor do I have the power to mend his body.  I can return his soul, but his mending will be up to your healers.  If I shall meet him again at my gates, there will be no second offer.  He shall enter.”

“Surely it is better to at least try for life, if the worst is only to return here again,” Legolas said, certain that this blessing would solve all.  Of course, all the hints at the horribleness of whatever had happened to him did not excite him towards regaining those memories, but no memory could be _that_ bad.  Even permanent disability, should that be his fate, could not be as bad as leaving all of Middle Earth behind.  His father had suffered his own disability for centuries, and he had overcome it to the point where most didn’t know he had one at all.  Whatever had been done to Legolas’s body, surely he could overcome?  And Gimli would be there, and Aragorn, and Elechant, and the hobbits, and Gandalf, and all his kin.  His father would be there.  His father would not have to abandon his kingdom for love of his son.  It would be the right choice.  So why did his father seem to hesitate?

“I have looked over the Greenwood for many years,” said Thranduil.  “For a lifetime.  But the time for elves is passing.  The shadow is gone.  The Greenwood does not need my protection any longer.  And long have I missed my kin who went before me.  My father.  My Mother.  My wife.”

“…You don’t mean for us to return to life?” Legolas asked.  He was shocked.  He could not imagine his father being anything other than the king of the Greenwood.  He could not fathom him choosing to leave his kingdom, not even for his son.

“We would not have stayed long, I do not think.  You would have left me for the sea within a century or so.  Do not think I don’t know how the sea has touched you.”

“I don’t seem to feel it, now,” Legolas answered.  “But Ada, your kingdom…”

“Let Celeborn have it all.”  That statement was perhaps even more shocking than simply choosing death, but Legolas immediately abandoned that line of thought for another.

“My friends…they will mourn.  To lose one of the fellowship, in this way, after all danger seemed past, and when they could reasonably think I’d outlive them all…”

“And why should that pain be yours rather than theirs?  To watch them die.”

“The pain is the same, whether they leave me or I leave them.  We are parted.  I’m not ready to part from them.  Not all of them, not all at once.  I’m not ready to leave Middle Earth.”

Thranduil was silent for a moment.  His eyes stared into the distance, as though looking into a future Legolas couldn’t see.

“My son,” he said then.  “Do you imagine all will be well if we return to life, that in a short time the trauma of being killed, of dying will become a moment of the past, just as any time we’ve faced wounds, and you will wander Middle Earth with your mortal friends, until finally they die and you give in to the sea and the gulls take you home?  It will not be that way.”

“You think I’m too weak to overcome whatever Ladir did to kill me?”

“Weak?  No.  I think I am not strong enough to see my son suffer.  Please do not ask it of me.”

Legolas hesitated.  “If I could but remember…”

“No!  No…Legolas.  Let us go to our kin.  Your mother awaits you.”

Legolas did not answer.  He felt confused by his father’s council, so at odds with what he had expected his choice to be.  He could not remember dying, and so he did not truly know what he risked if he went back.  He began to dread learning, even as he chaffed at not being allowed his own past.

“Your choice?” Mandos asked.  He didn’t sound impatient, and yet, there was no point in debating further.

“I will follow my father,” Legolas answered.  Thranduil let out a soft sigh, muscles that Legolas hadn’t even noticed were strained now relaxed and his father gave him an approving smile.  He took his son’s hand.

“We will enter your halls together.”

With a nod, Mandos stood aside, sweeping his arms as though to usher them inside.  Thranduil turned slightly, offering his other hand to Tauriel, who all this time had stood silent and waiting, knowing it wasn’t her place to offer opinions or interfere.  She smiled in turn, and the three of them approached the open gate.

“Welcome, Thranduil.  Welcome Legolas.  Welcome Tauriel.  You come to the place where all wounds shall be healed, until even the scars fade.  Join your kin and rejoice in the Song.  ENTER THE HALLS OF MANDOS.”

Almost, they could feel a force pushing them forward, like a great wind, except a wind that didn’t stir their hair or clothes.  For one moment, Legolas resisted the pull and turned to look one last time behind him.  To his surprise, he saw a vision.

It was another room.  There was a bed.  Surrounding the bed were Legolas’s closest friends.  The entire fellowship, Aragorn with his hands over the figure in the bed, a figure obscured somehow, Gimli, still clinging to an ax wet with blood, Gandalf with his staff, the four hobbits, Galion and his elf friends of old, minus Ladir.  They crowded around, and their faces were full of grief and horror and sorrow.  His father was there somehow as well, laying over the figure in the bed, his face turned away.  The other faces turned towards them, and Legolas could see that they saw him in turn.  They looked startled.

Legolas smiled at them.  He could not return to them.  Perhaps this would be the last they saw of each other, though he hoped otherwise, that he would be allowed to welcome each of them in turn when their time came to go where he now went.  He hoped that he could let them see that he was at peace and happy.  Let that be their last sight of them.

He smiled, and then he turned and with his family he entered into the light.

His mother was waiting for him, as were all his lost kin.  The slain were not lost.  He would live again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ends the story. I had actually intended it to go on slightly longer, to include what happens after entering the Halls and the reunion between kin. And Boromir was going to be there. I know he's not an elf, but I don't care. I like the idea that all the halls are interconnected, and that different races can visit each other, they just usually don't because their tend not to be such great friendships between races that they'd seek each other out. But I found I liked leaving off here, even if it left the final chapter a bit short. Anyway, no reunion scene can be as perfect as the one left to the imagination, (just as nothing I come up with for what exactly Ladir did to Legolas could be as horrible as what is left to the imagination; the unknown is just scarier). So ultimately, it just felt right to leave off in the doorway. We aren't meant to pass it yet.


End file.
